


Buyer's Remorse

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Giveaway winner, Hand Jobs, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, John included, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Rutting, Tumblr Fic, alternate season three, and sneaky!Sherlock, little bit of bamf!John, no season three spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returned home to find out that John didn't just wait around for him - he went and got a contract under Mycroft.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You were found out. Compromised. We have yet to find the source of the leak, though I assure you it won’t be long until we do. That, plus the continued silence, is why I asked Sherlock to go in.”  </i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You said that I’d be on my own,” said John, folding his arms.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>There was something cold in Mycroft’s expression. “Had you been anyone else, you wouldn’t have been. As you said, we risked everything by extracting you.”</i></p><p> </p><p>Somehow, it didn't change anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buyer's Remorse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikyu/gifts).



> This was written for [chriseve](http://chriseve.tumblr.com/) on tumblr as the first place winner of my 1k followers give away. Prompt was basically John being employed by Mycroft and investigating an underground human trafficking ring, only to be bought/extracted by Sherlock. It was supposed to be only 5k... oops?

The nightclub looked identical to every other one on the crowded street. A line of giggling girls and suave men waited outside a door that was heavily guarded by a couple of unsmiling, muscled suits, a line that was so long most people simply bypassed the club in search of more accessible fun. On the rare occasion that someone was permitted entrance, the door would open to reveal flashing lights and a thrumming beat that threatened to shake the pavement.

As innocent as the whole situation appeared, he knew that this was the building he wanted. He nodded to his driver just once, a sharp, concise movement, and the car glided to a halt. His driver climbed out and opened the door for him, allowing him to swing his legs out and straighten with a grace that drew the attention of more than one person. Wearing a flawless, cocky smile, he strode across the street and bypassed the line completely in favour of making direct contact with a guard.

"Julien Laurent," he said, producing a white card from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. One of the guards took the card and opened the door for him without ever saying a word. He entered, barely sparing a glance for the bustling dance floor, having eyes only for the scantily clad young woman that immediately attached herself to his arm and guided him along towards the basement.

It was an entirely different story down below. Quiet, for one thing, with excellent soundproofing that prevented any of the noise leaking from upstairs or vice versa. The lights were dim, private, and there were several chairs all set up in front of a stage. Most of the chairs were already filled. Julien glanced over the assembled men and women before turning back to his escort. She smiled without looking him in the eyes, her own gaze fastened securely on the ground. She waited for his request.

"When does the show begin?" he asked in perfect French.

"Soon," she responded, likewise in French, not skipping a beat. "Would you like a drink, Monsieur?"

"Wine," he said dismissively, looking again to the stage. "I have a particular interest in one of the packages. Is it possible for me to discuss a private sale?"

"I'm afraid not. It is an auction only tonight."

She tensed a little in anticipation of a blow when he turned back towards her, though he did not raise a hand to her. "Bring me my drink," he commanded instead, leaving her there. He selected an aisle seat in the middle of the rows and sat down, facing the stage but not deigning to involve himself in any of the asinine conversations of his neighbours. He was here to bid.

By the time she brought him his glass of wine and an informational folder, the auction had begun. The auctioneer was a thin, tall man with an oily smile and a loud voice, and the first package was not one Julien had an interest in. He watched with a bored gaze as the nineteen-year-old girl, a brunette with decent measurements, brought in the amount of just over two million rubles. She was taken off the stage to meet her new owner and the next package, a boy this time, was ushered on to replace her.

The package that he was waiting for was number twenty-seven. He was patient, sipping at his wine and making a note of the budgets of those around him. He made certain to give no outward indication that he was interested when the auctioneer raised his gavel and package twenty-seven was carted onstage. For a moment, the room was silent as the bidders were given an opportunity to examine the man in detail. 

"Older lot here, broken in but not damaged," the auctioneer finally said in accented Russian. Low murmurs broke out around the room as several translators echoed his words in a variety of languages. "Still got a lot of spirit in him, not to mention a background in fighting. More information is available in your dockets, of course, if you'll flip to page fifty-nine. Shall we start the bidding at half a million rubles?"

Julien waited a beat, accessing his competition. A few people were looking through their papers, but most were paying little attention. Only one woman across the room raised her paddle and the auctioneer beamed. "We have an offer of half a million. Do I hear seven hundred and fifty thousand rubles?"

Casually he lifted his paddle.

"Excellent! One million?"

Again, the woman lifted hers. She was frowning in Julien's direction. He spared her a glance, running a cold gaze over her too tight dress and taking in the obvious work she'd had done to herself. Had he been closer, he might have pointed out that she should have paid for someone more skilled as the work looked far too apparent to be believable. He settled for cocking a disdainful eyebrow and receiving an angry flush in return.

As the bids grew ever higher, the package lifted his head a bit and looked out over the audience with unfocused eyes. It seemed to take most of his strength, as he folded inwards only a few seconds later. Julien shifted, the first indication of unease he'd allowed himself, but forced himself to continue bidding at the auctioneer's discretion. At any other time he would've enjoyed the way his competition was growing increasingly and visibly frustrated, but remaining still and silent was difficult.

Just over eight million rubles later, he rose from his seat and followed his escort behind the stage. 

"That's quite a sum," said the guard that was waiting for him. Package twenty-seven was swaying beside him, shackles around his ankles, knees, and thighs. More metal bound his arms behind his back, rendering him effectively immobile. A shock collar was clasped around his throat, preventing him from speaking or escaping.

"You know how it is when you truly want something," Julien replied, noting the way the package's eyebrows furrowed. He didn't understand French, clearly. "No sum is too much."

The guard chortled as he took the money, his fingers clutching the notes greedily. "Evidently not. Here are the keys, Monsieur. I bid you well. Should you need aide in getting him back to your hotel, we can provide it for an additional fee."

"That will not be necessary. You may unlock his feet so he can walk, no more."

Once that had been done, Julien took the keys and beckoned sharply to his package. He did not go back out through the main room, but traversed a dark corridor that sloped upwards to the street level. His car was waiting by the back entrance, his driver already standing beside the open door. Julien stood back as the package hesitated briefly before awkwardly scrambling in. Only once he was on the other side of the long seat did Julien follow.

His driver closed the door and then got into the front seat, starting the car and pulling away. Julien stared out the window in silence as they gradually left the overly bright lights of the city behind, until the only thing surrounding them was a comforting darkness. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief and allowed his eyes to slip shut as the remaining tension slid from his shoulders like water. 

"You must be uncomfortable," he said, now speaking in accented English. "If I take your bindings off, do you swear you will not kill me?"

Blue eyes flicked his way, the glint in them familiar and dangerous, and Julien smiled. "I thought not. Perhaps I can sway your decision."

He reached for his hair, digging his fingers through the blonde weave until his grip was firm. He peeled it off, grimacing as a few strands of his own hair were pulled out with it. The glue was strong, he would give accolades where they were due. He dropped it onto the ground, determined to burn it later, and followed it up with the suit jacket and shirt that had added a good four stone to his slender frame. He toed his shoes off, hooked his thumbs into the waistline of the trousers and arched his hips to shove them down, leaving him in just boxers and socks.

Practice allowed him to remove the brown contacts without needing a mirror, though his eyes stung when he blinked. The false nose and dentures were also discarded, as were the smooth plastic discs that had been carefully glued and then shaded onto his chin, cheeks and forehead to give him a fuller, puffier appearance. There was a small bottle of make-up remover in the cup holder of the door, and he splashed a liberal amount onto the back of the suit jacket before scrubbing hard at his face. 

When he chanced another glance up, package twenty-seven was staring at him with an open mouth. His lips moved, forming a soundless word. He couldn't hear what it was, of course, but he could guess, and he let Julien Laurent fade away entirely as Sherlock Holmes smiled and spoke normally. "Hello, John. I take it I can free you now."

There was no response, but he took that as agreement. He slid across the seat and began with the bindings on John's legs, suppressing an angry growl as the reddened flesh underneath was revealed. John straightened his legs out gingerly, wincing with obvious pain even though he was careful to remain quiet. Sherlock was quick to remove the bindings on his arms before he unlocked the shock collar. He was tempted to throw it out the window and have the driver back up over it a few times, but refrained. It could give them valuable information.

John touched his throat with fingers that shook. His neck was a little red and swollen, and his voice was hoarse when he whispered, "Sherlock?"

"It's me."

"How?"

"That..." Sherlock's smile was grim. "It's a long story, but suffice to say that the reason I am here is also the reason that you are here."

"Mycroft," John guessed, his eyes fluttering shut as he took a deep, unhindered breath for what was likely the first time in weeks. He exhaled slowly and Sherlock's eyes dropped to follow the pull of muscles beneath tanned flesh, for the first time acknowledging John's lack of clothing. Though living together meant he'd seen John in various states of undress before, this felt different. It was outside the privacy of the flat. Intimate. He looked away.

The car had been well stocked ahead of time, and he reached into the back for the case he knew would be there. John accepted the clothing readily, pulling first the boxers and then the thin, cotton t-shirt on eagerly. It was easier to look at him then, to see beyond the surface. Sherlock was surprised to realize that there was a sense of peace around John that he had not expected, one that made his eyes narrow as he understood just how much his brother had interfered while he had been away.

"You knew."

He hadn't meant it to sound like an accusation, but it did. John smiled then, turning to look back at him. "That you were alive? Yes. Mycroft told me six months after the fact."

"Why?"

John shrugged one shoulder. "You can deduce it, can't you?"

Wanting to hear John say it didn't mean it was going to happen. Sherlock spoke dispassionately. "After my death, you were bored of London. Lestrade attempted to help, but his meagre attempts could only do so much considering that his job was on the line and you weren't capable of providing the insights that I am. So you approached my brother, looking for a more exciting life, and of course he agreed. He wouldn't sign you on to M16, no, he wanted you for himself.

"But after the first mission or two, Mycroft realized that you were reckless." His mouth curved, corners twitching up without his permission, because it was one of the qualities he had always appreciated most about John. "He believed that you might be going on suicide missions because of me, so he told you the truth. That I was still alive. I suppose I should be honoured that he believes you think so highly of me."

John huffed out a soft laugh. "That's Mycroft for you. Always right, even if he's a little bit wrong at the same time. I can't say that hearing the truth about you made me any less reckless. If anything, it probably made me worse. I was so _angry_ with you..." He trailed off, and something about the set of his shoulders, the unnaturally relaxed position of his body, suggested that the anger wasn't as past as his next few words suggested. "Fortunately my missions provided me a healthy outlet for that."

"I bet," Sherlock muttered. He would have to locate and memorize the details of the missions John had gone on during the past two years, since it was unlikely John would ever tell him. He could do that later.

"That still doesn't explain to me why you're here now," said John. His eyes had softened with amusement, a look that suited him more than the cold fury from before. "Or why you just spent a small fortune purchasing me from the slave block."

"You went out of contact. Mycroft was concerned," Sherlock replied. Or as concerned as his brother ever became, which in Mycroft's case amounted to having Anthea shoot the last of Moriarty's lieutenants in the head so that Sherlock could be dispatched to find and collect his partner instead. Frustrating as it was to have such a poor conclusion to his months of work in tearing the web apart, he couldn't deny that he was unhappy to be here.

"I was collecting evidence on a human trafficking ring by posing as one of the victims. Mycroft knew that. For god's sake, he was the one who assigned me to the case in the first place! And he could have ruined everything by sending you there."

It was Sherlock's turn to shrug. He would not defend his brother, but in this alone he would not scorn him. It had disturbed him to no end to see John on that stage, being fought over like a piece of property to be bought and sold at whim. He was not wholly convinced that John understood the precariousness of the situation. He had investigated a human trafficking ring once before with Lestrade and Mycroft; some of those photographs had been... distressing, to say the least, particularly when he pictured John in them.

"Just wait until I get a hold of him," John muttered, folding his arms across his chest. He refused to say another word for the duration of the car ride and Sherlock did not press him. The past two years had taught him, if nothing else, that it was not always wise to prod at a sleeping bear.

When the car finally slowed to a stop in front of a small hotel, John threw the door open without waiting for the driver to get out. He leapt out and Sherlock quickly followed. A few tourists stopped and stared at the sight of two half-dressed men walking into the lobby, but John paid them no mind. He went straight to the stairs and took them two at a time up to the third floor, where he walked down to the fourth door and thudded his fist on the door.

It opened to reveal Anthea with a carefully bland smile. "Good evening."

"Where is he?" John said, apparently not in the mood for pleasantries. She stepped aside and he stalked past her. Anthea looked at Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow. She grinned.

The inside of the room looked very little like a traditional hotel room, having been redecorated to resemble an office. Mycroft was seated at his desk, making his way through a stack of paperwork. He acted as though he had not noticed the interruption, right up until John slammed a fist down in the middle of the letter he was reading. It would've been impossible - and likely suicidal - to ignore that. Still, he took his time acknowledging the furious soldier standing on the other side of the desk.

"John," he said at last, having taken the time to cap his pen and fold his hands. "It's good to see you."

“Oh fuck you,” John said bluntly. “What the hell were you thinking, Mycroft? You could have ruined everything. I’ve spent the past six months working my way into that organization. What if a pivotal part of my plan rested on my being purchased by someone else? I would've got word to you if I needed help. An extraction was not necessary.”

“You might not believe so, but my sources tell me otherwise,” Mycroft shot back. 

John eyed him. “What do you mean?”

“You were found out. Compromised. We have yet to find the source of the leak, though I assure you it won’t be long until we do. That, plus the continued silence, is why I asked Sherlock to go in.” 

“You said that I’d be on my own,” said John, folding his arms.

There was something cold in Mycroft’s expression. “Had you been anyone else, you wouldn’t have been. As you said, we risked everything by extracting you.”

Sherlock tensed slightly, irritated by the implication that the only reason that Mycroft would have bothered to save John was because of him. And yet, at the same time, the words rang true. Agents who worked for the government, for Mycroft, were made aware of the fact that dying on a mission was always a possibility. If the situation came to a head, Mycroft could not always compromise the integrity of a mission just to save one life. John would have been no different. He _should_ have been no different.

But he was. 

Mycroft glanced at his brother then, for the first time, and gave a smile that held only a hint of mocking. “Consider this your reward for the sacrifices you have made for your country,” he said mildly, and it was difficult to tell which of them he was talking to. “Now Sherlock, you need to leave so that Doctor Watson can make his report in confidence. Anthea, show him to their hotel room.”

“John won’t work for you anymore,” Sherlock said, not moving.

“Sherlock, you can’t just -” John began to protest.

“No,” Mycroft said, as though John hadn’t spoken. “I was only borrowing him while you were gone.”

“I’m _right here_ ,” John muttered.

“See that you’re not here long,” said Sherlock with a pointed glare at his brother. He was reluctant to leave John alone with Mycroft again, but at the same time he knew Mycroft was not above using drastic measures to get privacy – such as drugging a younger sibling and locking them in a bedroom. He took the key from Anthea without argument and went down the corridor.

The room they’d been given was about as large as Mycroft’s, only it actually served as a bedroom. The bed was enormous and looked very comfortable, but Sherlock stripped his boxers off and went straight for the shower. He was anxious to remove the rest of the make-up now that there was no longer any reason to hide. He spent a long time scrubbing his face, chest and hands to remove the concealer Anthea had painted on, and then he washed his hair a handful of times to get rid of the wig glue.

Through it all, the water remained hot and steady and the bedroom beyond was silent. Sherlock didn’t leave the shower until he heard the exterior door open and shut. He rinsed himself off one last time and then climbed out, wrapping a towel around his hips and carelessly rubbing the other one through his hair as he stepped back into the bedroom.

John was sitting on the end of the bed, staring off into space. His head turned automatically and his mouth opened, but whatever he was going to say never came out. He stared at Sherlock, eyes wide, and then slowly closed his mouth. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and clenched his hands into fists before he attempted to speak. “What happened?”

“I was undercover,” said Sherlock, glancing down at his chest. His flesh was littered with the still healing marks of a whip, and more covered his back, buttocks and thighs. It had been about two weeks now and some of the wounds still ached as though he’d only just received them. 

“Undercover,” John repeated, getting to his feet and crossing the distance between them quickly. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s belly, fingertips lightly skimming across a few of the worse marks. He was quiet for a moment. “Is this why you were willing to extract me?” he asked finally. “I wondered. Normally there’s nothing you’re not willing to do for a case, but…” He trailed off and looked up at Sherlock.

“There are dangerous people in the world,” Sherlock murmured. And sometimes having an encounter with them wasn’t always the adrenaline fuelled adventure that he’d taken it to be before. John had gone through a lot as a soldier, but Sherlock was selfish enough to admit that there were some things he never wanted John to experience. 

“Yeah, I know.” John sighed and dropped his hand. “God, I want to be mad at you.”

“You’re not?”

“Right now I’m more pissed off at your stupid brother than you.”

“Did you gather the evidence you needed?” Sherlock asked. He refused to feel guilty for extracting John, but he could appreciate the frustration that came from not being successful at a case. 

“I thought I had. Apparently I’m not going to find out either way.” Evidently he had found some anger for Sherlock, because the glare on his face was a force to be reckoned with. “Just because you’ve returned from the dead doesn’t mean I’m going to automatically sign back up to be your partner, you know. I like the work I’m doing for Mycroft. He’s a prick, but at least with him I’m doing something useful. There’s no reason why I have to stop and I don’t appreciate you two acting like I do without consulting me. I don’t _belong_ to you.”

“Don’t you?” 

The words were out before Sherlock could stop them, and they had a remarkable effect on John. He sputtered, speechless with shock, before recovering. “Of course not!”

Sherlock smiled. “As I recall, not two hours ago I paid a considerable sum for you,” he pointed out.

“That’s not… that was… I didn’t…” John was floundering, his cheeks stained with the beginning of a blush, and it was adorable. Sherlock almost hated to give him an out.

“Go take a shower, John,” he said, pushing past his friend. He dropped his wet towel on the bed just to see the annoyed look the action earned him. That seemed to be enough to snap John out of his daze, because he muttered something under his breath and stormed into the bathroom. 

Anthea had thought ahead and stocked the room with clothing. Sherlock found a fresh pair of boxers and a luxurious white robe and pulled both on before he laid down on the bed. Fading adrenaline beat a familiar dance through his blood, and he knew it would be a while until he’d be capable of falling asleep. In the meantime, he called down to the lobby and ordered some of the most expensive things on the room service menu. If they had to stay, even if just for the night, it would be on Mycroft’s tab.

The food had arrived and Sherlock was halfway through a carton of fried rice before John emerged in a cloud of damp steam. His hair was damp and he was smiling the way someone only did when they’d been filthy for weeks and finally had the opportunity to be clean. He zeroed in on the food, reaching eagerly for a plate of dumplings. He fished one out with chopsticks and popped it into his mouth, making a soft sound of pleasure as he chewed slowly.

It took every ounce of willpower Sherlock possessed to not look at him. His control had been tested enough tonight and he thought that if he did, he might snap. The implications of John being bound had been easy enough to ignore before, when all he’d wanted was to get John out of the shackles, but now those images teased his mind. He absently ate another mouthful of rice and tried not to think about what it might be like to have John bound like that again – this time willingly, for Sherlock’s eyes alone.

“Did you want to go?” John asked suddenly, and the question was an effective shock of cold water. 

“No.”

“It must have been an adventure…”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sherlock said, pushing aside naughty thoughts in favour of looking at his friend. His best friend, if John still wanted him. “I couldn’t think of any other method that would guarantee the safety of everyone Moriarty had targeted. And make no mistake, you were still targets even after my death. It was nearly four months before the web in London was gone.” Too long, in Sherlock’s opinion. 

John was silent, staring down at the half empty plate like it held the answers to all of his questions. "What will you do now?

It was something that Sherlock had carefully avoided asking himself, because the truth was he didn't know. "Go back to London, I suppose. I don't... I've travelled enough." He was tired of unfamiliar cities, languages, cultures. All he wanted was to fall asleep in his own bed at Baker Street and still be there when he woke up the next morning. Preferably with John right next door, or better yet right beside him. He smiled bitterly.

The kiss was a total shock as far as Sherlock was concerned. It was awkward, because John had to lean across the bed and sort of twist his head around to reach Sherlock's mouth, and it tasted like Chinese food, and he was so surprised he didn't even remember to kiss back. By the time his mind caught up to the fact that John was actually kissing him, John had already withdrawn. Sherlock gaped at the stiff lines of his back, wondering if John had been drugged at some point without his knowledge.

"What?" Sherlock mustered after several seconds of gaping.

"Sorry," John said immediately. "It's just, what you said earlier... it got me thinking, even if you meant it as a joke." He turned around and squinted thoughtfully at Sherlock. "If it's not what you want, that's fine. But I spent the first six months of the past two years thinking you were dead, and the past year and a half after that not sure I'd ever see you again. Seemed silly to let a good chance go by. Sorry," he added again.

The only thing that Sherlock could think of to say was, "It wasn't a joke."

"What?"

"I wouldn't spend over a hundred thousand pounds on just anyone," Sherlock said, and he was inordinately pleased when John laughed. He hadn't heard that sound for a long time. He wanted to hear it more. But... he needed to know, and it wasn't as easy to deduce John now as it had been before. "What about you? What will you do, now?"

"Well, I've just been fired so I guess I'm unemployed right now." He didn't sound nearly as upset about that as Sherlock was expecting. 

"And you accepted it?" Sherlock was a little surprised by that, given John's level of annoyance when he'd left the room. He'd been half expecting John to have muscled his way into a long term position directly under his brother, Sherlock be damned. 

John shrugged. "As much as it pains me to admit it, I had a better offer."

"Who -"

This time John climbed over the bed to kiss him, kicking the majority of the remaining food to the floor. It would be an awful mess for the staff to clean up and in any other circumstances, John probably would've stopped at that point to do it himself. But he didn't. His hands were heavy and warm on Sherlock's bare shoulders and his weight was a comfortable one when he slung a leg possessively across Sherlock's lap. He straddled Sherlock as easily as though he'd been doing it every day of his life and put his newfound height to good use, guiding Sherlock's chin up.

Kissing John was nothing like Sherlock had imagined, and make no mistake he had spent a fair amount of time while he'd been gone picturing it in exquisite detail. John's body was radiating heat in each place that they were touching: groin, thighs, belly, chest, mouth. It was addictive. He let his hands slide across John's hips and up. His ribs were a little more prominent than they should have been, but his back muscles were strong under Sherlock's fingertips.

When John nibbled at his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, Sherlock willingly parted his lips and greeted John's tongue with his own. It was wet and messy and fierce, and he discovered that having someone suck on his tongue was more than enough to send the first few tingles of pleasure rushing through his body. He moaned softly and then, surprised by the sound, instinctively swept one hand down until he was able to grope at John's arse.

It was a lovely arse, too, full and rounded, and Sherlock was pleased to discover that his hand covered one cheek perfectly. In the interest of being fair, he brought his other hand down and cupped the other side. John groaned and squirmed a little closer, shifting his position just a bit, edging one thigh higher until he could bring their half-hard cocks into direct alignment. He rocked against Sherlock slowly then, matching the rhythm of their kisses until they were just breathing against each other.

"John," Sherlock whispered, tasting the word, tasting the man. Tempting though it was to close his eyes, he kept them open. He wanted to know that it was John Watson he was kissing. He could see John's eyelashes, the wrinkles across his forehead, a fading bruise on his hairline. It wasn't enough. He wanted more.

He tipped his head up and renewed the kiss, trying not to think that it could've easily been someone else kissing John at this moment. He licked his way into John's mouth and selfishly categorized every inch of it until John was making sweet sounds and shivering against him. Sherlock gripped his arse harder, bucking his hips up experimentally. He delighted in the gasp that slipped into the air between them before he greedily swallowed the rest of it, a cry that was meant for no one but him. 

Quickly, but not so fast that John wouldn’t be aware of what was happening, he braced himself against the bed and then flipped them over. John’s back landed against the pillows and he grunted, blinking up at Sherlock for a few seconds before he smiled. He spread his legs invitingly and Sherlock didn’t hesitate to accept as soon as he had pushed his boxers and the robe off. John seemed to be on board with the idea, kicking his own boxers down and yanking his t-shirt over his head.

Naked, Sherlock lowered his weight onto John, gritting his teeth at the flash of pleasure. It was so much _more_ when there was nothing between them, no layers separating the slick slide of their cocks. He kept his eyes locked onto John’s face, memorizing the play of emotion: how John’s mouth opened soundlessly with a gasp when Sherlock ground down particularly hard, how his eyes opened wide when Sherlock nipped at his neck, how his hands trembled when they ran down Sherlock’s spine.

“More,” John rasped, hands sliding up now. He tangled them into Sherlock’s hair, thumb brushing the fine curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and eliciting a shiver. “I haven’t been thinking about this for two damn years just for us to come like a couple of teenagers.”

Sherlock chuckled breathlessly. “I’m amenable to whatever you might suggest,” he murmured, taking note of the way that John arched beneath him when he spoke. He wondered if he would be able to drive John to orgasm with his voice alone at some point. 

Despite his words, he did not wait for John to gather himself enough to be able to suggest anything. He wiggled his way down, slow and sensuous, enjoying every inch of flesh against flesh, until he was resting between John’s thighs. John stared at him, his face beaded with sweat. He licked his lips. Sherlock kept his gaze as he grabbed a pillow, sliding it beneath John’s arse to lift him up a bit, kept looking even when he took the head of John’s cock into his mouth and John’s eyes flew shut with a wrecked cry.

“Oh god,” he choked out after several attempts, his fingers twisting into the sheets. “Oh g-god, Sherlock…” His eyes were still closed tightly, his muscles straining with the effort of staying in one place. “Where the… where the hell did you learn…”

A little annoyed that John was still capable of speech, Sherlock sucked hard. Anything else that John might have been planning to say was abruptly derailed with a helpless moan. His hips bucked and Sherlock pinned him down easily with an arm across his thighs. He pressed his tongue against the slit, tasting the bitter fluid, as John let out another deep groan that trailed off into a pleading, wordless whine. 

He loved the way John couldn’t seem to stop making noise, a variety of whimpers, gasps and groans the symphony to his pleasure as Sherlock lavished attention on his cock, wrapping his hand around the base and squeezing gently before he swallowed the rest, working the muscles of his throat. That earned him a yelp, and he knew then that he wanted to hear every sound that John was capable of making, but more than anything he wanted to know what John looked like when he was caught up in pleasure.

Just having John underneath him finally was more than Sherlock could have asked for, but he was loathe for the experience to end so quickly. He backed off a little and pulled his knees under him, sitting up. John was panting, his skin flushed with desire, looking up at him with wide eyes. There was an unspoken question written in the familiar blue gaze and Sherlock bent to kiss him, letting John share the unique taste.

He took their cocks into his hand and began to pump slowly, earning a sweet little cry from the man pinned beneath him. John tried to reach down to help, and Sherlock paused just long enough to gather John’s wrists and pin them to the bed above his head. He delighted in the way John struggled against him a little, like he was testing the strength of Sherlock’s grip. In a physical fight he wasn’t certain who would win, but the thought that John was _letting_ himself be restrained… it was even hotter than real restraints would have been.

Groaning, he leaned down and kissed John again. John wrapped his ankles around Sherlock’s hips and yanked him closer with a low growl, and Sherlock let his hand speed up. He was tempted to look down at the sight of their cocks, rubbing and smearing together in the palm of his hand, but he couldn’t look away from John’s face. He kept his eyes open through the kiss before he turned, licking at a bead of sweat that was rolling down John’s cheek. It was salty.

“John,” he whispered, hoarse and raw, and John’s cry echoed through the room as he came. His seed was warm and slippery and Sherlock rutted faster into the curve of John’s hip, chasing his own pleasure.

“Come on,” John urged, locking his ankles tighter around Sherlock’s waist, lifting up to meet him. His hands slid down and grasped Sherlock’s arse, one finger sneakily sliding in between and rubbing over his hole. Sherlock gasped for breath and cursed as he shuddered, momentarily overwhelmed, the room and John disappearing in a haze of black spots.

Sherlock leaned against his lover for a couple of minutes, dazed and spent in more ways than one. He didn’t protest John squirming out from underneath him, especially when John just rolled over and cuddled back up to him once he was free. They exchanged lazy, soft kisses until Sherlock felt exhaustion creeping up over him. It had been a long time since he’d felt safe enough to really sleep, but here... he thought he might.

As though sensing this – and maybe he did, John could be like that – John sat up and grabbed the sheet, yanking it up and over them. He laid down again and stretched from head to toe, hands above his head again, before smiling. “So was it worth it?”

“What?” Sherlock asked blankly.

“Your purchase. No buyer’s remorse?”

“God no.”

John laughed, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Tell me you weren’t the one to foot the bill.”

There was a time when John would’ve scolded him for stealing Mycroft’s credit card, and Sherlock said as much. John just smirked and leaned in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe next time you could be the one to win a fic... come see on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/) to find out how.


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